The Clothes Don't Make the Man
by Vampire Punter
Summary: Since returning from Purgatory, Dean has been having some very disturbing dreams about a certain friend of his. Too bad his stupid friend has gone off to who knows where on stupid angel business. Smut. Destiel.


Dean sat on the plush red velour sofa facing the stage, hands resting on his knees, eager for the show to begin.

He was alone in the theatre, a private showing all for him. He'd seen this one before; it was one of his favourites, Warrant's _Cherry Pie _blasting over the sound system. Sometimes it would be a lithe brunette in a red vinyl corset with little plastic devil horns, sometimes it was a buxom blonde in a fluffy white teddy with downy angel wings. On the best nights, it was both.

What he hadn't anticipated was the dark-haired man in the beige trench coat who looked like he'd just rolled out of bed staring him down with narrowed eyes and squared, stubbled jaw.

Dean stared dumbfounded at the stage and the angel upon it, wondering if his dreams were being invaded by dicks with wings again like Anna had. He was about to protest when the aforementioned angel shed his trench coat without a word, staring at Dean with smoldering blue eyes as he loosened his tie, popping the first button at his collar.

The hunter swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, shifting uncomfortably as he felt his jeans tighten for no goddamn good reason.

Castiel didn't seem to mind, however, shrugging leisurely out of his cheap black suit jacket and holding it out at his side, dropping it with blatant disregard on top of the discarded overcoat.

He sat staring at the man staring down at him from the stage, his dick throbbing against the tight denim of his jeans as he took in the angel's perfectly squared shoulders, the vague hint of lithe, toned torso beneath the wrinkled white button down, slender arms hanging at his sides. His mind boggled out how fucking _naked _the angel looked without all the bulk of his perpetual layers, finding himself wondering what lay beneath the last barriers of cloth and what it might be like to sink into that tight ass, see if he might be able to shake that fucking stuck loose.

As though the angel had heard his thoughts, Castiel descended from the stage, stalking toward the hunter and climbing into his lap, straddling him. Dean could feel the heat from the angel's body as he hovered above his straining cock, enticing and smelling slightly of ozone, his own slacks intriguingly tented. Castiel leaned in, dragging his teeth along Dean's stubbled jaw line and Dean found himself lifting his hips upward in an attempt to make contact.

Castiel bore down on him, grinding mercilessly slow against his aching cock, dragging a low, debauched moan from the hunter's throat.

"Please," he whined as the angel rocked back, nipping the soft flesh along the hunter's collarbone. The slow friction was torturous but so fucking _good. _Dean bucked his hips harder, trying to take control of the pace, but Cas held him down, teeth pinching painfully as long slender fingers worked their way beneath his shirt, brushing over his left nipple.

The hunter moaned appreciatively, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch as Castiel ground against him. God, if he could just...

Dean jerked, pushing himself upright as something firm yet squishy struck the back of his head. He shuddered as his morning erection pressed into the firm motel mattress, clenching his teeth to keep from making his dick's interest in the pliant surface known out loud, squinting at his attacker in undisguised malcontent.

"Jesus Fucking H. Christ! Go take a cold shower!" Sam complained, tossing the pillow he'd used to assault his brother at the elder Winchester's head.

"The fuck, Sam," Dean bitched right back, rubbing his face and flopping back down into his pillow.

"Sorry," his little brother shot back testily, "I got sick of listening to you hump your fucking mattress."

Dean sighed dramatically in defeat, rolling to his feet (facing pointedly away from the younger Winchester in a vague attempt to conceal his raging hard on) and grabbing his duffel bag as he made his way to the bathroom.

"Bitch," he shot over his shoulder as he shut the door, hearing a muffled 'jerk' in response as he threw the lock.

He stared into his own blood-shot eyes in the mirror for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He'd been having that dream a lot lately and it was starting to scare the fuck out of him. What was worse was the terminal case of morning wood it seemed to have brought with it. The first time had been shortly after he'd gotten out of Purgatory; he'd dreamed that he was back in Monster Hell, just him and Cas, Benny having either fucked off somewhere or just not there at all. He'd been on his own that night, halfway between Maine and Montana, and in his mind's eye theatre he'd had Castiel pinned against one of Purgatory's dead, twisted trees, the angel wearing nothing but that dirty trench coat, covered in monster blood and gore, head thrown back and screaming in uninhibited pleasure as Dean fucked him rough and ruthless into the rough bark, clawing and biting at each other like animals with Castiel's cum dripping down his chest.

He'd woken up on his belly, hips still stuttering into the mattress as he came, gripping the sheets.

It had freaked the fuck out of him.

He'd kept quiet about it, and it seemed like it was going to be a one-off thing until the angel reappeared a few weeks later.

Castiel had popped back into his life unexplained, dirty and haggard looking with no explanation of how he'd gotten out of Purgatory. When the angel had emerged from the bathroom after debriefing, showered and shaved and in that stupid fucking suit and trench coat, Dean had popped a serious fucking boner that had him squirming in his seat until he could excuse himself to the bathroom long enough to take care of business, wondering what the fuck was wrong with him.

After that, he'd been having these fucked up dreams about his best friend at least three nights a week.

His dick twitched, demanding his attention as he replayed the Purgatory dream in his mind again and Dean sighed, twisting the knob on the shower and stepping into the hot, pressurized stream.

The weird thing was, since the dream about Purgatory, the dreams had been getting tamer and tamer, yet the effect that they had on him were getting more and more powerful. Castiel in just his white shirt and slacks with his tie askew, Castiel in jeans and a t-shirt, Castiel in pyjamas - and for some reason it was more erotic than if the dude had been stripped nude and trussed up in nothing but a blue ribbon.

Dean obediently wrapped his hand around his aching cock as it pulsed at the flashes of imagery, swiping his thumb against the head as he jerked himself. He bowed his head into the water, panting softly as he bit down on his lower lip, hips jerking forward, slightly against the rhythm of his hand. He tried thinking of Lisa in that black and pink silk negligée; nada. He thought of Cassie at the river wearing nothing but moonlight; nope. He imagined Anna, sprawled across the back seat of the Impala beneath him, doe eyes glistening with lust; nothin' doin'.

Cas in his Sabbath t-shirt munching on a White Castle cheeseburger; fucking Fourth of July.

Dean choked down a gasp as his dick exploded against the shower wall, spurt after spurt of hot cum streaking the green tile he stroked himself through his orgasm, panting softly as he leaned forward, legs shaking as wave after wave of euphoria shot through him.

"Fucking angels..."

* * *

**AN: **So, that was kind of silly. X3 should I continue this? follow/review if you want to see where this goes. Even I don't know. What the hell.


End file.
